This is Saturday and I Don’t Have a Beard

I’m rather discombobulated today, so this isn’t really a post, because I’m still not sure that today really happened.

You know that feeling when you wake up completely confused about where you are, even though you’re in your own bed and nothing about your house is new or even remotely different, and yet absolutely everything is unfamiliar? That’s me today.

Once up (after sleeping for WAAAAAAAAAY too long in the kind of exhausted PMDD-induced stupor that would cause me to snore through a fire alarm and wake up in the burn unit– note to self, check smoke detector batteries), I wandered around the apartment going through the motions of my morning routine on autopilot, all the while trying to figure out what time it was, what day it was, and what I was supposed to be doing.

There was a very scary moment when I thought maybe I’d Rip Van Winkled, and now everyone I knew was twenty years older and had moved on with their lives and I’d grown a really long white beard, and now it was just Oz and I, and…wait a minute– if Oz was still here I couldn’t possibly have slept for twenty years because dogs only live for about fifteen (and he’s a big dog so he’d live for ten at the most) and he doesn’t look any older anyway: good old Oz. This was a relief, and I gladly accepted my place in the society I thought had left me behind as I stroked my beardless chin, until it occurred to me that maybe this was really Ozzie’s grandpup, or an Ozzie clone because this is the future and they can do that now… and then I nearly surrendered to the confusion and took a nap, but then, because it was oddly quiet outside, briefly worried that I hadn’t Rip Van Winkled, but was in fact living in the desert version of Brigadoon, which of course made me wonder what would happen if old Rip had lived in Brigadoon… would anyone even have noticed he was gone?

So now my brain is wrinkled, my smoke detector has new batteries, and I’ve been humming “Almost Like Being In Love” all day. 

By the way… if this really was 2033, someone would tell me, right?! And should I designate a beard-waxer, in case I really do Rip Van Winkle some day? It had better be someone younger than I am… K baby, your favorite aunt has a  job for you: make sure I never look like this: rip-van-winkle


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